


Reforged

by onestepatatime



Series: Dwarven Theater in My Head [5]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onestepatatime/pseuds/onestepatatime
Summary: Bilbo often misses his dwarven friends after retiring to the quiet life in the Shire. He really misses them after he is kidnapped by a clan of dwarves in retribution to their dishonorable treatment by Thorin. Can a hero be broken down and reforged into an obedient slave that holds loyalty only for his owners and not to Thorin?This is a repost of "Forgotten Warrior", which was deleted by accident when I was reorganizing my works. I didn't like the title, nor the violent implications, so I changed the story around a bit. The graphic warning tag is for the more sensitive readers, but this shouldn't get descriptions that are all that violent.Written on a whim. No set update schedule.





	1. Slighted honor all around.

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt is from Zorchide's "Challenge" Ch 41  
> "Bilbo is kidnapped from Shire. The dwarfs on learning the news become enraged and swear that they will recuperate their burglar by all necessary means even if they become the best friends with the elves of Mirkwood ... to the greatest misfortune of their last."
> 
> Legal Disclaimer: All trademarks and copyrights are owned by their respective owners. I make no profit from this story.

“Surely you would reconsider, Your Majesty?” The emissary from the Firebeard delegation bowed, his long unbraided red beard sweeping the floor. In contrast, his dark brown braids were secured back with a large emerald hair clasp.

My representatives have already spoken to you, in private.” Thorin grumbled. He had tried to send the umpteenth offer of marriage away, but this group was especially proud and bold. They had even brought their noblewoman and her dowry, ready to set a wedding date for tomorrow. Now the head emissary, Coan had confronted him as soon as open court was in session.

“I acknowledge the cooperation between our clans for the last century…” Thorin tried to be delicate. The Firebeard dwarves that had made the ruins of Nogrod their home a few centuries before Thrain II brought Durin’s Folk to Belegost had been especially generous to the ragtag refugees. Thorin was starting to get an inkling of the purpose behind that help, and its price.

“We took your beggar children into our own homes while you made Belegost livable, we did. You had not but rags to wear.” Coan bowed his head respectfully, but wore a knowing smile.

“I wouldn’t say rags necessarily…” Balin, as silver tongued as ever, interjected.

“You are dismissed. Court is dismissed.” Thorin’s fury and pride reared up. There had never been any agreement for a marriage in exchange for support. Patience exhausted, he climbed off of Thror’s grand throne and strode past Coan through the main exit. Tact would require use of his private door off to the right, but the King Under the Mountain was showing exactly what he thought of this disrespect and dishonor.

“How dare they try to bully our king with disrespect!” Dwalin grabbed one of the delegates by the collar as a signal had his troops grabbing the rest. They would show this infuriating group what trouble such blatant behavior reaped. They would all be frog marched straight out of the mountain, immediately.

Balin tried to grab Dwalin’s arm, but his brother's pride was as deep as their kings. He had been the one to get to know this group over the last week. The bride offered was the beloved only daughter of a Nogrod high noble. Coan was sincere when admitting that they had brought a bride dowry far larger than they comfortably offer. Accepting the marriage offer had been seen as an equal trade and the entire party had been beyond baffled at the refusal.

“Nothing good will come of this. Mark my words.” Balin caught the enraged faces of the delegates as they were carted off.


	2. Collecting their recompense.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's life is about to take a turn for the worse as slighted dwarven pride demands retribution.

Bilbo had always been a heavy sleeper. His parents had been delighted when he was born and slept through the night if he wasn’t sick. It had also worked to their benefit when he was a child and they had no worries of Bilbo interrupting night activities. It worked to the tween aged Bilbo’s benefit when his parents had no idea of his nighttime escapades. More than one, an angry victim of this or that prank couldn’t convince Bungo that his son had been out the night before after he had seen him dead to the world when he himself retired. Belladonna had her suspicions, but she enjoyed hiding her smiles behind her tea cup as a farmer showed her an entire herd of cows painted blue.

All that had changed on the quest, especially after the goblin trap floor cave. Now, two years after returning home, Bilbo still woke up at least three times a night to this or that noise. One benefit to such insomnia was always having an upper hand on troublesome tweens. He had doused more than one gang with buckets of cold water  just as they were about to mess with his garden or windows.

Tonight had been no exception. Bilbo woke for the second time to an especially annoying hooting owl that refused to leave the oak on top of his smial. Cursing, he turned over and froze as he heard the sound of glass shattering.

Jumping out of bed, he grabbed Sting. His hopes of it being a tween throwing rocks with a bad aim left as he saw rather familiar silhouettes inching down the hallway. They must have broken the back bedroom’s window to not be noticed. Why were dwarves sneaking into his home? There sneaking was actually loud thumping with whispered curses in Khuzdul, but who cared? A dwarf sneaking in at midnight was not here for 4 o’clock tea time.

Bilbo was convinced that he had a better chance of sneaking outside as he opened his bedroom window and hefted himself up through it. Once on the ground, he was running like the wind through his garden and over the fence. Wanting to scream, but daring not to, he worried for the safety of the other families. Then he was grabbed by mouth full of teeth and he screamed as two of the largest dogs that he had ever seen dragged him to the ground.

“You got him?” Bilbo barely made out the Khuzdul words. He had picked up far more of it than the dwarves would have liked as they traveled, but it wasn’t Bilbo’s fault that he had good hearing and they weren’t actually secretively using their ‘secret’ language.

“Yah.” Someone beat off the dogs and hauled him to his feet. “Still in one piece.”

“Ya sure it’s him?” It was definitely an accent from the Blue Mountains.

“What other hobbit carries an elven dagger?” Sting was snatched away as Bilbo hopped on his injured leg. Blood poured down it, but the wounds didn’t seem too deep.

“Let’s go. Master’s waiting.”

Bilbo had a bag shoved over his head and his hands bound behind his back. Dragged a great distance, he was thrown belly down on a pack pony and a long ride began.


	3. One Journey Ends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey ends, but what now?

Bilbo came to ask he was hauled off of his pony. His captors had stopped enough times for Bilbo to guess that it had been about two weeks since he was stolen from the Shire. The current tally was 12 days, as he had scratched his skin each night with something sharp as his hands were untied long enough for him to scarf down a bowl of meat stew. He still did not know what this group of dwarves wanted from him. A fist slammed into his face at the first word he had uttered had taught Bilbo that they wanted his silence.

 “Hold him up; he is beat up bad enough.” A dwarf with blonde hair as golden as Fili’s, but with brown eyes as hard as flint, grabbed what was left of Bilbo’s tattered shirt and caught the hobbit as he nearly collapsed when he was set on his feet.

 This dwarf was the apparent leader of the group, going by the name of Croz. There were three others, all simpering cronies that hardly acted like the cohesive group that was Thorin’s Company. Bilbo had only been able to get the name of one, Droz, apparently the leader’s young cousin and the only one with enough value to use their name. The other two dwarves might be hired mercenaries, as Bilbo had seen many weapons cleaned, and they were the ones to handle the four wolf-like dogs that followed the group without leashes and terrified the ponies.

 “The healer might take that leg.” One of the nameless two looked at Bilbo’s leg.

 During the journey only Droz had really paid attention to Bilbo, being the one stuck with leading Bilbo’s pony and tending to him at night. None of the others had paid attention to Bilbo’s cries as he was hauled on and off his pony. Only he and Droz had bothered to tend to his festering wounds that drained an assortment of colored liquids when Droz cleaned and changed the wound each night. Droz had no healing supplies and knew little beyond the alcohol in their ale was an antiseptic.

 “Your contract was for one hobbit, not less.” Croz sneered and rounded on the now terrified Droz. “Is it fine or not, boy?”

 “My leg is fine.” Bilbo had guessed that Droz was in his sixties, maybe Gimli’s age. He was better dressed than the mercenaries, who seemed to save all niceties for their wolf dogs, but not by much. Droz also had the same look of scared desperation in his eyes as Bilbo had seen on begging orphans in Dale and other towns of men on his journey back to the Shire.

 Croz turned to Bilbo, the visibly relieved Droz shuffling far away from the hard fists that everyone had felt these past weeks. His hard eyes watched as Bilbo gritted his teeth and stood tall to look back at him.

 “Huh.” Croz shrugged. “Droz, pay the dogs. I will see to our guest.”

 Bilbo barely had time to take in the scenery of a small village of log huts surrounded by a haphazard wall that could not decide if it was made of stone or large logs. It was dark and he registered himself being herded into a hut before stumbling on the door jam. A wave of pain crested as fire in his injured leg and ebbed, carrying him into darkness.


	4. An Interlude Between Journeys and Some Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo learns a few answers, and he is not going to like them.

Bilbo came back to consciousness to the tune of Croz arguing with an old dame. He looked around at his surrounding, just to have Droz shush him.

 The log hut was made up of two rooms, one being a room for living, as Droz and the dame sat at a table by a fire. The other room was full of racks of drying plants, shelves full of bottles, and cupboards with many small drawers in them, all neatly labeled in Khuzdul. Bilbo could recognize some of the hanging plants as herbs that his own mother had kept.

 “Luouz is a good healer. She says that you will be fine.” Droz whispered when he looked over and saw that his cousin was well immersed in his argument.

 “You did your best.” Bilbo managed to catch the young dwarf’s hand and squeeze it while appearing to study the fire by whose heath his pile of furs was situated. His leg was elevated and expertly wrapped in clean linens. He could detect the lingering smell of poultices that must have drawn out any infection.

 “Luouz is a cousin from generations forgotten, but she will not be cheated for her services.” Droz seemed puzzled yet again by Bilbo’s manner. The hobbit doubted that anyone touched him except for a beating since he was weaned. Then he sigh and sat back.

 “You are kind, hobbit, but it matters not. No kindness beyond what is required will be shown to you.” Eyes that were too pale to be Durin blue, but were almost gray looked into Bilbo’s for the first and only time. “They will soon settle on a price and we will leave. Come morning, your new owners will come for you. For all of your kindness, your vala has forsaken you just a ours has forsaken me since my mother died. You will not remember your life when Luouz’s work is done.”

 “Owners?” Bilbo barely managed to keep to a low whisper. Droz scooted to turn in another direction as he grabbed a knife and began to studiously clean it by the firelight.

 “Aye. Droz was hired by some high lord from Nogrod. Only two traders know that he is willing to deal in slaves, or the making of one, so they must have some money to afford the fee he charges.” Droz looked over to where the voice tones announced that some agreement had been made. “As I said, our valar have forsaken us and we live as best we can.” He got up and collected the knife and sword that he had cleaned.

 “If you ever wish a change of scenery, go west.” Bilbo was very well acquainted with dwarven pride, even a youngster’s. Not every one of Fili and Kili’s fights had been brotherly scuffles. Hard hits had been made when someone’s pride was hurt more times than Bilbo could count. He could not offer something directly, especially as Droz knew more of Croz’s fists than of Bilbo’s standing in a city that seemed almost mythical in its descriptions.

 “I have no need of losing my head, hobbit.” Droz looked ready to strike Bilbo himself.

 “In the Trollshaw Forest is a group of three stone trolls. For anyone determined enough to find them, looking a bit more to find a cave with a bit of shine in it should not be hard.” Bilbo turned to the other room at the sound of a bag of coins hitting the table.

 “Droz!” Croz’s voice yelled, clearly angry. No matter what, the young dwarf would be found wanting and faced a sure beating as the result of his cousin’s anger about the healer’s fee.

 “We are forsaken. Try to remember that.” The defeated Droz slumped his shoulders as he followed his cousin out of the hut.


End file.
